Heavy Breathing

I have a friend who works as an administrator in health care. She often shares with me aspects of wellness activities that are part of her work. Recently, she told me there had been many long days at the hospital due to all the planning that goes into protecting staff and patients from COVID-19 while ensuring the hospital and other facilities still operate effectively and safely. It’s a very demanding job, yet she describes it as also being a highly supportive work environment. She has shared with me creative challenge questions they are given each week. One week each person needed to share a sound that made them feel productive. She said it made people more mindful of the sounds in their environment all week long. A little extra mindfulness can make an enormous difference these days. My friend chose the sound of cutting fabric. She is a talented quilter, so this sound made sense even though it wasn’t related to work.

She also shared she liked the sound of a three-hole punch. A three-hole punch fits into her world of many papers at work. As a teacher, I liked the three-hole punch, too, although I think this friend likes it more. I still have a three-hole punch but rarely use it. It has a definite sound of accomplishment. It’s the precursor to placing final papers in a binder. I love binders but they are pretty quiet office supplies.

What would I have chosen as a teacher? Would I have chosen the morning bell announcing it was time to officially start my day with my second graders? Maybe the ending bell was a better indicator of a day filled with work, learning, and productivity. A pencil sharpener evokes mixed feelings. Often it was used to give the illusion of working hard when hardly working was the more likely scenario. Other times it represented the definite hum of worker bees in the hive of learning.

None of those sounds fit my present life. I still like the sound of an electric pencil sharpener. A newly sharpened pencil makes a soft scratching sound as it scrawls across a sheet of paper. It’s hardly perceptible but it’s there. I don’t do tons of writing by hand. I gravitate towards pens over pencils when I do. Even now as I type away, the keyboard clicks in a rhythm of spurts. Words appear, but I’ve never equated the sound of typing as being especially productive. I’ve never paid any attention to it. I’m being mindful of it now but think of it more as a means to an end. It’s the finished piece that makes me feel productive and that has no sound. When I’m done, I’m just done.

My home is pretty quiet. TV or music provides background noise. I’m not producing either of those. I don’t cook a lot, so the cooking sounds of mixers, knives slicing on cutting boards, and timers going off aren’t sounds that work for me either. I like the sound when it’s quiet. Silence has never bothered me. Seldom is there ever truly no sound. The clock that hung in my grandma’s kitchen ticks away in mine. I can hear that from the rooms off my kitchen. I find it reassuring. Comforting. Constant. Centering.

I enjoy being in nature where I can listen to birds sing and leaves rustle on trees. I can hear the wild turkeys forage as they move slowly in a cluster. A strong wind is exhilarating if it isn’t pushing against me. I’m not making any of these sounds. I just take them in and let them fill my soul.

How am I productive? What do I really DO anymore?

I’m a professional patient. Most things during treatment are done to me, not by me. Sounds are not any result of great productivity on my end. I sit the majority of my time at office visits and treatments, only walking to get from one area to the next. The infusion machine beeps when there is a problem or my infusion is done. I hear the whoosh of my cold cap filling with the magic cold that I wear to save as much hair as possible. Occasionally, I’ll hear doors of other treatment bays slide open and parts of conversations between nurses and patients. So much for privacy. About the only productive contribution I make is pressing the call button. I do that often to alert the nurses when I need to start the next phase of the scalp cooling process or there is an air bubble in the infusion tubing and the machine is beeping rhythmically because it isn’t happy. I don’t do very much. I show up and I endure, no small feats, but I don’t turn cartwheels while I’m there.

Professional patients still want to feel productive. We are quiet; we are vocal. We float in and out of appointments and visits; we dig in our heels and don’t make things easy for anyone while trying to get what we need that makes us feel human and a wee bit healthier. We say we are fine; we tell it like it is. We are grateful; we resent some things. We are individuals; we are part of a cancer community. We keep using our voices to push for action and not awareness; we know the number of women and men who die every day from metastatic breast cancer hasn’t budged one bit. Are we productive? Yes and no. There are no distinctive sounds that make any of these behaviors and feelings stand out.

I exercise. That’s an area of my life where I take ownership. Even this has changed no thanks to the issues I’ve encountered on this treatment with hand and feet issues. I’m aware I keep coming back to this in quite a few of my posts or comments, but I tell you, it has hit me hard. I hurt to some degree pretty much all the time with this treatment. Gripping tools makes my hands hurt. Gardening and yard work took a hit this summer. My first attempt at raking this season didn’t bode well for all I have to rake. My opposable thumbs have been highly oppositional. My poor elbows are skinned due to using them to push up off the floor when doing yoga or getting out of bed because pushing off my hands is painful. I work hard at walking, but I never know where my edge is and when I will have done too much. I only had blisters on my feet once, until last week when one the size of dime developed on the top of my big toe. My point is that a lot of the physical work that made me feel like I was being productive has been sidelined. I can’t run right now. I can’t lift my kettlebells. Walking is at a slower pace.

But . . . I have found a way to exercise differently. My coach has been phenomenal. I ordered a weighted vest and can load it up to sixty pounds if I want. Twenty pounds is a good amount for me. I can wear it walking around the house. An extra twenty pounds makes a noticeable difference. I will load more when twenty pounds doesn’t make me work hard. I climb stairs wearing it. I do squats, forearm planks, modified pushups, and some yoga poses. Over and over again. My core gets a workout. That vest pushes me. It makes me sweat. I feel alive and decisive.

The vest gives me control and agency. Putting it on and doing hard work is my choice. I know there will be moments I wish I wasn’t wearing it because it makes the work I’m doing lots tougher. It makes me feel like I’ve accomplished something and like I’m winning for a few minutes of my day. The vest makes me feel strong and proud of myself. I know I’ve had a good workout after I’ve used it. Feeling strong and proud are powerful feelings. I can do hard things. Hard things that make me feel good. Hard things that I choose. I am productive.

How do I know?

It’s the heavy breathing.

Heavy breathing is my sound that makes me feel productive.